Low life | 18 May 2017

Chez Frank is a popular local boar-hunters’ bar, tobacconist and general store at a lonely crossroads in the forest. It also serves daily lunches of no-nonsense French country food. There’s no menu; you get what you’re given. You like it or lump it. The chap who first told us about Chez Frank, now dead and missed, said on no account to tell anyone else about it, especially the local English milords, in case they flocked there and ruined the authenticity of the atmosphere. Catriona took me last Sunday to celebrate my no longer being depressed.

We sat at an outside table under the low boughs of a blossoming chestnut tree. The other tables were fully occupied with French speakers when we arrived, all heartily tucking in to the charcuterie starter, the contents of which it is usually best not to inquire about too deeply. In the way of things in France, we were greeted pleasantly by anyone who caught our eye and we in turn wished everybody bon appetit. On the white paper tablecloth of our table for two were arranged some eating irons and two heavy glass tumblers and everything was sprinkled with pink and white chestnut blossoms. A little blackboard on the wall said that today’s main course would be rabbit.

The table service Chez Frank is conducted by three generations of the extended family who own the place: the old lopsided grandfather, who doesn’t look at all well these days; his son, a 50-year-old countryman whose cells, if not his genes, are at least a quarter wild boar and perhaps a quarter bullock; this man’s imperturbable wife who both cooks and serves and generally flogs herself to death, though her personality dominates; and an 11-year-old girl with the mind and manner of a popular royal courtesan.